Ribbons

— Stop fidgeting… The Player’s voice sounded strict, almost irritated, yet something strangely soft, almost caring, shimmered through that sternness. He leaned down lower, carefully combing through the strands of Griefer’s white, slightly disheveled hair, and slowly, with meticulous neatness, tied pink bows into them. An answer, of course, did not follow. And it couldn’t. The snow-white hair, matted in places with dried blood, looked terrifying against the backdrop of these ridiculously gentle ribbons. The pink color did not suit the deathly pallor of the face, the blue under the eyes, or the dark spots on the skin at all. But the Player was not embarrassed. Not in the slightest. He loved Brad. No. Love was too simple a word. He was obsessed. Painfully, madly, to the point of trembling in his fingers. — Thaaat’s it… He drawled almost in a whisper, stepping back a pace and admiring his handiwork. His gaze held sincere tenderness, as if it truly were an expensive porcelain doll before him, and not a lifeless body. Everything seemed perfect. The pink doll dress neatly fitted the slim figure. Snow-white stockings with black stripes emphasized the fragility of the legs. The outfit had been chosen with love, with taste, as if for an exhibition. Only the face… and the body. Skin stained with blood, covered in bruises and traces of rough blows, gave away the truth. This was not an image. Not a game. Not pretense. It was a real corpse. The eyes—glassy, empty, devoid of light. And it was this immobility, this dead silence in them, that excited the Player the most. — You know… You still need some stitching. And then it will be absolutely perfect. He smiled—broadly, pleased—and headed to the bedside cabinet. From there, he took out an eyepatch decorated with tiny pastel buttons. Gentle, almost childlike. Next came bandages, neatly folded, as if he were preparing for meticulous work. The Player stepped closer and slowly rolled up the sleeves of the dress. Scars. Deep cuts intersected the skin, stretching along the wrists. Old and new, healed and open. Too deep, as if they had been made specifically that way—slowly, with effort. — Silly… Dolls don’t have cuts. Only scratches. His voice became softer, almost affectionate. But, as before, silence was the only answer. He carefully began to wind the bandage around the mangled wrist. His movements were surprisingly neat, almost gentle. As if he truly cared. As if he were trying to fix something that had long been beyond repair. The scars did not disappear. Blood still seeped through the fabric. But the Player didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn about Griefer’s past. About who he was, what he felt, or what he thought. None of that mattered anymore. Now there was only him—his doll, his property, his creation. Having finished with the hands, he took a step back and scanned the body with the picky gaze of an artist evaluating his canvas. — There we go… A girl should be beautiful, shouldn’t she, doll? There was no answer. The room drowned in silence. Thick, viscous, almost tangible. The Player didn’t wait. He took the eyepatch and slowly, with a kind of perverted trepidation, tied it over Griefer’s eye. The patterns and buttons seemed cute to him, adding completeness to the image. When the knot was neatly secured, he giggled quietly. — Ta-daa… Do you like it, my love? Absolute silence. The smile did not disappear from his face. On the contrary—the doll’s immobility only fueled him more. This obedience, this complete lack of response, drove him crazy. He lifted the body into his arms. It felt strange—cold and yet retaining residual warmth. Heavy, but so desired. The Player leaned down and pressed his lips to Griefer’s. The kiss was long, insistent. The taste of metal and blood unpleasantly settled on his tongue, but that didn’t stop him. A little blood flowed from the bitten lip of the dead man, slowly rolling down his chin. The Player moved down to the neck, leaving traces of teeth and lips on the skin. The bruises darkened, the skin turning purple where he touched. And it was precisely this—these traces, these marks—that made him breathe faster. — Ah… Griefer… My Griefer… He whispered his name with a kind of painful delight, as if afraid that he might be taken away. His lips were colored crimson. His teeth ached, his breathing became heavy. But madness still danced in his eyes. Finally, he pulled away. Slowly, with effort. The Player straightened the clothes, brushed off the dust and dried stains, and then took the body into his arms again. Tenderly, almost reverently. He laid Griefer down on the bed, smoothed out the dress, and carefully covered him with a white warm blanket. He tucked in the edges, just as a loving owner tucks in a favorite toy. Leaning down, he gently kissed him on the cheek. — Sweet dreams, my doll… The whisper dissolved into the air. The Player straightened up and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. A satisfied smile played on his face—content, almost happy. And Griefer remained lying in his new bed. Motionless. Quiet. And now, he truly would never wake up again.